When my mom's dad died, he left two things for my father.Alcohol and power tools.
In the last years of his life, my grandfather would often take holiday dinners into his bedroom and eat in front of the television.
Mom said he was "depressed."
To me, watching TV on holidays instead of sitting at the dinner table in tight brown corduroys and an immeasurably itchy red sweater sounded like heaven.
"Mommy, I want to be depressed with Poppy."
"No you don't. Eat your carrots."
I hated carrots.
I remember the first time my father dug up Poppy's bottle of Polish potato vodka out of the green army chest in our basement. He had shuffled me downstairs just as another car full of relatives pulled up.
"Where are you guys going?" my mother asked as my father and I shuffled to the basement door.
"Firewood. We're getting more firewood," my father answered, practically yanking me down the stairs.
A few minutes later, he thrust the bottle in my face victoriously, having dug it out from under old blankets and my Micromachines collection.
I'm pretty sure the bottle had a hammer and sickle on it.
"What is that?" I asked, wary of the Cyrillic characters scrawled across the label.
"Soviet jet fuel," he answered.
"Which is good for ... ?"
"Surviving Thanksgiving. Come on."
He kept the bottle in the garage freezer, and we would take one shot every Thanksgiving and Christmas. We'd both be in socks and could hear the stomping feet above our heads.
These were the days of chemistry class and acne, of early morning drives to the train station and impossible crushes on tall blonde Marymount girls.
But when my father broke out that bottle of liquid death, by God I was a man. I cursed and spat on the concrete floor and talked in the deepest tone my squeaking voice would allow.
We decided it would be a tradition on holidays to have a drink to my mom's father and my father's grandfather Leo, who donated the shot glass. We thus toast two of the most influential men on my family's tree. The domineering patriarch and the off-the-boat Russian tailor.
From the former I got stubbornness, thin hair and my loud mouth. From the latter, I got an affinity for breaking into a Russian accent and a genetic predisposition to heart disease.
Sorry ladies, I'm taken.
Both men made it their habit to disappear from holiday festivities. My father and I continue this tradition in their honor.
In the old days, we'd stand around in the freezing garage for about 10 minutes and trade our favorite lines from the day's festivities.
"Got any gems?" he'd ask.
"Well, Grandpa's first words to me when he walked in were 'Oof, it looks like you ran through a screen door.'" My father would rub his forehead with his palm.
"About the acne, you mean?" he would ask, squeezing his temples as though he were trying to force a headache out of his ears.
"Yeah."
"I wouldn't tell your mother about that one if I were you."
I learned pretty quickly that the key to a marriage that lasts as long as my parents' has is successful, non-violent holidays.
Two key ingredients from my father's perspective:
a) Making sure that you keep a tight lid on your parents' miscues.
b) Consuming enough alcohol to make sure that the miscues of your wife's parents have no effect on you. But not so much that you end up strangling your mother-in-law.
"Yeah, well your Nana told me I was never there for you and Mallory when you were kids," he says.
"Ouch. Good one. I think you win."
He'd take another shot in honor of his victory.
We'd come back inside, and my mother would roll her eyes as I opened the basement door. The two of us would saunter over to her and give her a hug.
"God, you two stink. Get away from me."
Times have changed some.
I bought my father a University shot glass for Christmas last year. Instead of leaving the one dusty glass on the workbench in the garage, my mom now actually washes them in preparation for the tradition. And, by the grace of God, we finished the bottle of Polish vodka a few years back.
We drink Grey Goose now.
These are days of term papers and a brunette long-distance girlfriend, of roommates that leave their mildewed pots in the sink for seven weeks and professors who see straight through BS.
There are bigger fish to fry, obviously.
"Yeah, I think my hair is thinning too."
"What can you do? It's a long spiraling road downhill from here."
"Fantastic. I'm going back upstairs," I say, shivering.
A few memories stick out clearly from past Thanksgivings. The year we started the tradition, I can remember sitting with my aunt and uncle, trying to figure out names for their new baby.
Now, Jason runs around the house, my uncle chasing him, a stain on his polo shirt.
"Having a little trouble getting the food in your mouth Danny?" I ask him.
"No, that's where Jason blew his nose on me." Then he burps, scratches himself and asks when I'm going to mention him in one of my columns.
"Don't worry, you'll do it too one day," he says, watching Jason run circles around the dining room table.
"Blow my nose on your shirt?"
"Chase after your son," he answers, dashing off to save the bowl of Tostitos on the dining room table from his son's hungry hands.
I turn to the living room and consider my options.
I can talk politics with my grandfather or my major with my grandmother. I can talk Jesus with my Nana or tackle my sister. My mother will try to put me to work drying dishes if she finds me.
So the obvious choice gets my vote.
"Hey, Dad," I catch his eye at the head of the table.
He squints at me. "Your mom need something?" he asks.
"No," I reply, nodding in the direction of the basement. "I think we should go get firewood."
"Why? The fire's fine. I have a stack of wood right there. See?"
He points to the pile of wood two inches away from my feet.
"No. I think we should get firewood in the garage," I insist.
"Well, if you want to, you can go right ahead. I think we've got enough up here."
Oblivious, even after five years.
"Okay, well if you want to go drink vodka, just let me know. 'Til then I'll be in the kitchen making fun of you with mom."
How long 'til Christmas break again?
A-J Aronstein can be reached at aronstein@cavalierdaily.com
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